


Five Times Vince Borrowed Howard's Clothes + One Time Howard Borrowed Vince's

by BobSkeleton



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Clothing, Howard wears sock garters because he is a massive dork, M/M, Magic Gone Wrong, Naboo is devious, Size Kink, Underwear Kink, Vince rather likes it, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 11:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: What it says on the tin. Gets smutty at the end.





	Five Times Vince Borrowed Howard's Clothes + One Time Howard Borrowed Vince's

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a 5+1 before but it's quite a good format! Also sexytimes are extremely not my forte. 
> 
> Thanks as always to blackmountainbones for being an incredible beta. Also for basically coming up with the entire "plus one" scenario. And for their help with smut. I owe basically everything to them.

 

  1. **Tie**



 

“Come on, Howard, it’s just for one night.” 

  
“No, Vince.” 

  
“But this tie’s well fashionable! Perfect for the ‘supply teacher’ look that’s in for the next three hours.” He follows Howard around the flat holding up a brown and navy tie.

 

“I said ‘no’ once, and if there’s one thing you should know about Howard Moon, sir, it’s that he means what he says. Besides, you’ll only spill something vile and fruity down your front all over it, and then what?”

 

“Howard!” Vince whines. “I won’t.”

  
“You will.”

  
“Then I’ll take it for dry cleaning, all right?”

 

Howard gives up. He knows Vince will take the tie whether he has permission or not. All he can hope is that it’s returned in decent condition. 

 

He appraises Vince’s look as he leaves--white button-down shirt, tweed drainpipes (they come in tweed? He files that piece of information away for later analysis), fake glasses (another thing to analyze later, Vince in glasses), a matching tweed waistcoat that looks two sizes too small...and his tie. Tucked into the waistcoat, almost done up properly.  He swallows thickly, offering to fix the tie. 

 

“Cheers, Howard, that’d be genius.”

 

He goes, standing closer to Vince than he has in ages. He tries to steady his hands and  _ not  _ think about  _ his  _ clothing there, around Vince’s throat, tries not to inhale the smell of Vince’s aftershave and hair spray. The impulse to pull Vince in closer by the tie is so strong it nearly wins out. 

 

Instead he chokes out, “Don’t dump anything on my tie.” 

 

And with that, he steps back and releases Vince into the night, collapsing on the black and white sofa to analyze tweed drainpipes, fake eyeglasses, aftershave, and...other things. 

* * *

 

  1. **Boots**



 

Howard yelled at him to put the shattered remains of the lamp out by the bin bags, nevermind that it was pouring rain. Vince alighted the stairs quickly and slipped out of his silver boots, not wanting to get them muddy. Casting his eyes around for something he  _ could  _ get muddy, he settled on Howard’s lone pair of black rubber rain boots. Shrugging to himself, he slid his socked feet inside. They were far too large, his toes swimming in extra space up at the front. He grinned to himself, imagining he was wearing scuba flippers. They were so  _ roomy!  _ How big were Howard’s feet? 

 

Big. 

 

All of Howard was big. Broad shoulders, height, those gorgeous northern pins, and, apparently his feet. 

 

_ You know what they say about big feet.  _

 

Vince blushes, actually blushes, cheeks heating as he tries (and fails) to not think about that. 

 

He shuts the door to their room and clambers back down the stairs to grab the box holding the bits of broken lamp. He can feel  the sparks of Howard’s anger still fizzling around him as he re-enters the shop.

 

“I borrowed your wellies, all right, Howard?”

 

“Fine, just leave them in the doorway when you get back. You’ve made enough of a mess today without tromping mud everywhere.” 

 

The way Howard scolds him like a bad puppy stings. Vince hadn’t  _ meant  _ to knock over the lamp, it just happened. He drags the box out back and runs back inside as quick as he can, trying to spare his hair any further rain damage. Once he crosses the threshold, he slips his feet out of Howards large, warm wellies, and takes his sad, be-socked feet back upstairs. 

 

He’ll try not to think about how much nicer it is when Howard is warm and safe like his boots, and not sharp and cold like broken glass. 

* * *

 

  1. **Hat**



 

Of course Howard owns a bowler hat. He has many hats. And of course Vince needs to borrow it for the fancy dress party. He was going as “that bloke from A Clockwork Orange, the one with the hat and the eye makeup,” even though he’s never seen the film. 

 

Howard opts to stay home with some jazz, Coleridge, and whiskey.

 

Vince stumbles back in late (or was it early?), and deposits the hat in Howard’s lap. “Cheers, Howard. M’off to bed.” And with no further fuss, Vince is in their room asleep.

 

Howard spins the wool hat slowly in his hands. He knows he shouldn’t. 

 

But he does. 

 

He brings the hat to his nose, and inhales. Sure enough, there it was. Beneath the smell of sweat and scalp lies the familiar smell of Vince’s hair product, and the underlying toffee scent of his shampoo. What even  _ was  _ that shampoo? Who has toffee-flavored hair products? 

 

Vince. 

 

Howard inhales again, this time a little deeper, eyes slipping shut. Damned but he loves that smell. The same one that lingers on Vince’s pillowcases. 

 

Not that he knows what Vince’s pillowcases smell like...of course not.

 

Shaking his head, he breaks the spell. How much had he, Howard, had to drink tonight anyway? He tosses the hat on the chair, and shuffles off to bed. 

 

If he dreams of Vince and toffee apples, the following morning he convinces himself it was just a coincidence. 

* * *

  
  


  1. **Robe**



 

Vince can be a massive tit, but Howard always feels so sorry for him when he’s sick. He looks even smaller, paler, more fragile and birdlike when he’s unwell. He removes the thermometer from under Vince’s tongue. 

 

“Yes sir, you definitely have a fever,” Howard confirms, reading the temperature. Vince groans quietly, voice hoarse, throat sore, head aching.   
  


“Guess I can’t go to the opening of Crease tonight.” He’d been planning his outfit for the club opening for days now. 

  
“Not on my watch,” Howard says sternly. 

 

Vince just nods sadly, suppressing a shiver. 

 

“Wrap up in something warm, little man, and come out to the sofa. I’ll go get some tea.” 

 

“Cheers,” Vince rasps. 

 

Howard’s robe is the most comfortable piece of clothing in the flat. Sensibly striped with dark gray and garnet, it’s plush, soft to the touch without being suffocatingly warm, and smells of laundry detergent and Howard. Howard can never know this, but Vince slips it on whenever he needs to feel comforted. Anytime he is sad or unwell in the slightest, he wraps himself in it and instantly feels a little better. 

 

Howard sets about making Vince tea, adding extra honey and lemon to soothe Vince’s sore throat. When he hears shuffling, he turns to see Vince wrapped in  _ his  _ bathrobe and curled up on the black and white sofa. 

 

Really? 

 

_ Really, Vince?  _

 

Vince has a whole wardrobe of robes--the silk kimono for his home-spa days, the embroidered satin blue one for pillow fights, the feather trimmed gossamer one for when he inexplicably wants “to feel like the widowed wife of a wealthy gangster”--and he’d gone and contaminated Howard’s  _ one  _ robe? 

 

Howard supposes “a robe for when you want to be warm” isn’t among Vince’s loungewear ensembles.

 

As if sensing Howard’s annoyance, Vince looks up at Howard through his long lashes, making his blue eyes appear bigger and sadder than usual. He sniffles for good effect. 

 

It works. 

 

Howard brings him his tea, and together they sit and watch the TV for a while. When Howard notices Vince nodding off, he shuts off the telly and helps him up. 

 

“Come on, little man, to bed with you.” He unties the robe and settles Vince into his bed, tucking him in like a small child. 

 

“Thanks, ‘oward,” Vince mumbles. He’s asleep before Howard shuts the door. 

 

In the hallway outside their room, he’s left with a robe that’s still sleep-warm and smells like Vince. Shaking his head, he chuckles to himself before tossing it in the laundry basket. 

* * *

 

  1. **Hawaiian Shirt**



 

“Why are you wearing my shirt?”

 

“It’s laundry day, innit? Besides, I haven’t got much on today, just staying around here. And I like the colors. And it’s well comfy.” 

 

“Maybe if you’d buy clothes that actually fit instead of being sprayed onto you, you’d own something ‘well comfy’ too.” 

 

Vince just laughs at him, and continues about his business.

 

He watches Vince putter around the flat, listening to music, dancing a little, cleaning (for all Vince is human disaster, he’s always liked tidying up). And Howard can’t help but think how much better he likes that shirt on Vince. He likes everything better on Vince. 

 

He also can’t help but imagine how much better he’d like it  _ off  _ Vince. 

* * *

 

**+1 time Howard borrows Vince’s pants**

 

“Naboo!” Howard shouts. He storms into the living room, absolutely livid. Vince follows, creeping behind him like a puppy afraid of being scolded but not wanting to be separated from its master. Both men are in their pajamas, hair sleep-tousled, but both awake early on account of Howard’s outburst.

 

“Naboo, get out here and explain why all of my pants are gone!” 

 

The tiny shaman emerges from behind the beaded curtain leading to his room. 

 

“Look, don’t get all bent out of shape, all right? It was a spell gone wrong. I meant to get rid of  _ ants,  _ as in the little buggers who’ve been in the kitchen, and the spell must’ve misheard and gotten rid of your  _ pants _ . I’ll fix it.”

 

Howard didn’t look appeased in the slightest. Needing someone to blame, he honed in on Vince. “This is all your fault, you know, leaving messes in the kitchen so we get ants in the first place.” 

 

“Wot, me?” Vince asked incredulously, his face the picture of innocence. 

 

“Yes, you. Always spilling things and leaving little trails of sugar every time you make tea.”

 

“That’s nothing next to how you--”

 

“Enough,” Naboo deadpanned. “Stop bickering. Figure it out, the store opens in ten minutes and you better be down there. I have to research spell reversal.” And with that, he headed back to his room. 

 

“Go buy me some new ones,” Howard commands Vince. 

 

“As if! I wouldn’t be caught dead buying whatever beige geriatric nightmare you’ve got going on under your clothes.”

 

“Well, we have to do something!” 

 

“What about the pair you’ve got on?”

 

“I  _ haven’t  _ got any on!” shouts Howard. “They disappeared in the night! And my drawers are all empty. There aren’t any. Anywhere. Have you got any?”

 

Vince cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t checked, but then I don't wear ‘em to bed do I.” 

 

Howard shoves past him into their room and pulls open the top drawer of Vince’s dresser. 

 

“Oi, get out of there!” 

 

Howard holds several scraps of shiny fabric. His face is flushed puce, from rage or embarrassment it’s difficult to say. 

 

“So  _ your  _ things are fine. Of course they are,” Howard huffs. “ _ Precious flower VINCE  _ wouldn’t have  _ his  _ ridiculous undergarments tampered with. Just rapist-eyed Howard!” He flings the garments back into the drawer and slams his way into the bathroom. 

 

Vince stands there, feeling somehow guilty even though he knows it’s not his fault.  _ He _ didn’t magic away Howard’s underwear. Still, if the positions were reversed, he’d want Howard to help somehow.  _ What would Howard do? _

 

He slowly, calmly, folds his sparkly undergarments up, then rummages to the bottom of the drawer. There he finds what he’s looking for--a simple pair of dark blue y-fronts with light blue trim. They are the simplest, most Howard-like pair he has. Quietly, he tiptoes to the bathroom where he’s sure Howard’s still having a strop. 

 

“Howard?” he calls softly. 

 

“What?”

“I’m leaving a pair of mine out here if you want to borrow them. If not, I get it. You could go without.” Vince knows this isn’t true. He’s  _ seen  _ Howard. He knows that there’s no way he can make it all day in his jazzy slacks unfettered. Frankly, it'd be obscene. But he lets the offer stand. “Anyway, I’m going to get dressed and open shop. Maybe you could go shopping while we’re on lunch, yeah?” 

 

With that Vince turns down the hall and returns to their room to get dressed. He doesn’t even complain that his straighteners are in the bathroom. He just does his best with the hairspray and eyeliner he finds under his bed, and opens the shop. 

  
  
  


Howard waits until he hears Vince’s gait heading down the stairs. He cracks open the door and grabs the pants, then goes back inside the bathroom. He holds them up. Thank  _ Christ  _ they aren’t sparkly or satin or sequined or tie-dyed.  _ What the hell kind of person has a tie-dyed thong,  _ he thinks to himself.  _ Vince,  _ his brain supplies. He files that away. No, these are, as far as Vince Noir goes, downright sensible. The colors are stupid, there’s nothing better than classic white, no sir, but Howard figures this is the best option he has for now. He brushes his teeth and makes his way back to their room to dress. 

 

Out of curiosity, he tries on his trousers commando and checks the full length mirror in the corner of the room. 

 

There is simply  _ no way.  _ The outline of his cock is plain as day against his corduroys, and he figures this is the sort of thing that’ll drive away customers. That and it’s just uncomfortable for him--he feels too exposed. Howard’s always referred to  _ it,  _ in his head, as “The Monster.” It’s large and unsightly and frankly, scares him a little.  _ This might have something to do with why you’re a virgin, Moon,  _ he reflects. Sighing deeply, he steps into Vince’s too-small pants and appraises himself in the mirror. 

 

They don’t fit. Everything about Vince is so petite, and while Howard has a suspicion Vince is, er,  _ well-endowed,  _ the rest of him is small. Short where Howard is tall, narrow where Howard is broad. The waistband digs a little into his hips, the lightweight fabric doing hardly anything to conceal his length. However, the size of them restricts him enough that he figures this is the safest way to go about the day until either he can get to a shop or Naboo reappears his own undergarments.

 

Still. 

 

The fabric is soft, lighter than the usual cotton he favors. And they’re  _ tight,  _ but it’s not...unpleasant. Looking at himself, cataloging these sensations, he feels a  _ twinge  _ down there. Horrified, he turns away, putting on a Hawaiian shirt. He breathes deeply for a moment, trying to ground himself. Scratchy linen Hawaiian shirt. Inhale. Beige fedora. Exhale. Before slipping on his trousers, he turns and looks, once more, in the mirror. 

 

His legs  _ are  _ long, aren’t they? Maybe he should go for this style of underwear more often, makes them seem even longer. On top he looks like Howard Moon, but below the waist...

 

He watches, equally horrified and fascinated, as The Monster tries to lengthen inside the constricting pants. 

 

If the world’s tiniest moan escapes him, he pretends to ignore it. 

 

He watches again, seeing his cock twitch uncomfortably in its tight prison.  _ Why is this turning him on?  _ It feels good,  _ so good,  _ the soft fabric, whatever it is, and the restriction of his cock, the friction there from the tightness of the pants. He reaches down and palms himself through Vince’s pants…

 

_ Vince.  _ He imagines Vince doing this, too, to himself in these pants. The Monster gives a valiant effort at leaping, and is denied the ability to do so. Howard groans. 

 

Carefully, he steps out of Vince’s pants, cock red and aching as it springs free. He lies himself down on his bed and within minutes comes into his hand, arching into it and stifling pleasured sounds. Naboo’s still here, for God’s sake, and Vince is downstairs probably struggling to open the register and trying valiantly for Howard’s sake. 

 

He comes down off his high, uses his pajamas to clean himself up, then tucks himself back into Vince’s pants. Vince, for all that he is terrible and entitled, has tried so hard to be helpful and nice this morning. 

 

Howard zips up his corduroys and gives himself a final once-over. Definitely more modest this way, even if the thought of wearing these for however many hours is giving him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Monster is back in its prison, for now at least.

 

He stops and makes tea for he and Vince on his way downstairs to the shop.

 

Vince has, predictably, made a mess of opening the till, which Howard rectifies. Vince watches him fixing things and sips amiably at his tea. 

 

“See, this is better innit? I help you, you help me, we’re squared,” Vince observes. 

 

He nearly prances off to the window to work on a new display (this is really the only thing Vince is good at other than chatting up customers--he has an eye for design and knows how to make the merchandise pop and look appealing) while Howard stays behind the till. 

 

Watching Vince in his drainpipes and sparkly fringed jacket, Howard wonders...what’s he wearing underneath that? Probably not another pair of y-fronts. Howard feels certain he is wearing the only sensible garment Vince owns. Maybe it’s one of the shiny, glittery scraps of fabric he had thrown around this morning.

 

He feels a little twinge of guilt. 

 

Slowly he approaches Vince, and clears his throat. 

 

“I’m sorry I was in such a... _ mood  _ this morning,” he says quietly. Vince turns giving him a wide, crooked-toothed grin. 

 

“S’alright, Howard, I’d be cheesed off too, if Naboo magicked away any of my clothes.” 

 

“Yes, well. I, erm, appreciate your, uh, assistance.” And with that he turns away and goes back to the safety of counting money. 

 

He appreciatively looks at Vince’s arse every now and then, though, trying to ascertain what exactly is going on beneath his drainpipes. 

 

At the front window, there’s plenty running through Vince’s head, too. Now that he knows  _ exactly  _ what Howard’s wearing beneath his trousers, well...the thought makes him a little hot under the collar. He has his suspicions that Howard had a sneaky wank before coming down, his hands were a little shaky and he was beautifully flushed. If Howard was getting excited by all this, Vince was going to have some fun…

 

Two hours on and Howard has moved on to organizing the jazz records. Again. Even though most people didn’t look at them. This gives him something to occupy his thoughts, something  _ other  _ than the situation in his trousers. 

 

Even after having gotten off earlier that day, every time he moves, he imagines the way his cock looked inside Vince’s pants. Then he starts imagining Vince’s cock in Vince’s pants, and he is trying to so hard not to get hard that he’s getting hard anyway. But once again, the tight pants are like a vice, only letting him get so hard before being forced to stop. 

 

He remembers from the zoo times that most reptiles grow to the size of their enclosure, then stop. If moved to a bigger home, they grow a bit more. 

 

His cock is a lizard. A monster lizard.

 

The thought nearly squelches all sexual thoughts from him. He tries focusing on the task at hand, but the tight waistband digging into his hips made it very difficult. 

 

Couple that with the way Vince keeps stretching about and lounging everywhere with his legs wide open...what the hell is he on about?

 

Vince  _ has _ been stretching about, all morning, showing off his long legs or the stripe of white skin on his lower belly as he futilely reaches for things on shelves he can’t reach. 

 

“Howard,” he’d called eventually. “Come get that stack of maps down for us, would ya?” And Howard had marched over, all cool and proud to be the tall man saving the damsel in distress. Vince shimmied up closer to Howard, looking at him from beneath his fringe which he knew usually worked a treat on Howard. Howard handed him the stack of maps, tugged down his shirt and adjusted his pants ( _ yesyesyes,  _ chanted Vince’s brain cell), and then returned to his task. 

 

Vince takes one of the maps and sits in the chair across from the records, legs spread eagle. Obviously, he was going to have to stop being so subtle for Howard to take the hint. He adopts his best, “It ain’t gonna suck itself” pose, and pretends to read the map. 

 

In actuality, he watches Howard. 

 

Every so often, Howard sighs or breathes deeply, and tucks his hands beneath the waistband of his trousers, arranging  _ something _ . When he stands, he takes a moment, adjusting himself all over--hat and collar, straightened--but pays special attention to his bottom half. There’s a little bending movement, almost like a dance, that he does and Vince  _ knows  _ he’s trying to get himself comfortable in Vince’s y-fronts. 

 

The thought shoots through Vince like a hot wave of pure lust. 

 

He’s seen Howard naked. He knows. He  _ knows  _ that what they said about big feet is true in Howard’s case. 

 

And that delicious, giant cock is living in  _ his  _ pants at this very moment. 

 

Vince shuffles again, making more room for his own growing length. He cants his hips upward, leveraging a little friction against the front of his tight jeans. 

 

“All right, Howard?” he asks, surprised at how gravelly his voice sounded. Howard turns, both eyebrows raised when he sees Vince’s position. 

 

“Yeah, little man. You?” Vince bites his lip seductively. 

 

“Bit warm.”

 

“It is, isn’t it.” 

 

Vince stands and stalks over to Howard, hips swaying more than was strictly necessary, never breaking eye contact. He’d been raised in the jungle. He knows how to approach a potential mate--like a leopard, smooth, quiet, dangerous. 

 

“Bet we could cool off if we--” 

 

At that moment, Bollo and Naboo come down the stairs like a two-man parade. 

 

“Gotta grab something for the spell reversal. We’ll be back in a while.” 

 

And as quickly as they’d arrived, they were gone. 

 

Howard and Vince stand there blinking at the space where they’d been. Vince turns to Howard, and sees him shuffling around awkwardly, certain the moment is lost.

 

Then Howard does  _ that move  _ again, and Vince is thrust right back into his predatory mindset. He turns and locks the door and pulls the shutters over the window. 

 

“What are you doing? It’s only noon,” asks Howard. 

 

“Lunch. Upstairs.” He makes his way to the steps. “Come on, Howard.” Howard follows, still looking fidgety and awkward. Vince makes sure he walks up the stairs in such a way that shows his ass to best advantage. Once they reach the top, Howard tries to sneakily adjust himself again. 

 

“Are my pants uncomfortable, Howard?”

 

Howard looks stunned as he answers, “No, sir.”

 

“You been fiddling with yourself all day. Want me to go and get you something to wear? The museum might loan me a pair of Victorian bloomers.” 

 

“Very funny.” 

 

“Seriously, Howard,” he said, lowering his voice and coming closer until he was in Howard’s personal space. “Don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” 

 

Howard almost gulped audibly. His cock is  _ straining  _ against the fitted fabric, and it feels so torturously good. 

 

“No,” he said dimly. 

 

“No what, Howard?” Vince asks, his hand creeping up Howard’s arm. There’s heat in the touch that spreads through both of them instantly. 

 

“Don’t leave,” Howard says roughly. 

 

In a flash, Vince’s mouth is on his.

 

This is  _ nothing  _ like the birthday kiss. That had been fueled by panic and necessity. This is fueled by warmth and heat and sheer lust. Vince cradles Howard's head, tipping the hat off and raking his fingers through Howard’s curls. Howard moans audibly into Vince’s mouth, which parted, allowing Howard access. He clumsily slides his tongue in, licking into the wet heat of Vince’s beautiful mouth. Vince lets out a noise akin to a growl and it shoots straight to Howard’s groin. 

 

They part, both mussed and out of breath. Grinning ferally, Vince grabs Howard’s hand and leads him to the bedroom. 

 

“Let’s get you more comfortable, Howard,” he purrs. He lifts Howard’s Hawaiian shirt over his head. 

 

“Take those off,” he says, nodding at the corduroys. He slides his own jacket and shirt off and starts the process of getting his drainpipes off. 

 

Howard slips off his trousers, and instantly feels embarrassed at being so undressed in front of Vince. Vince, who’s thin and lithe and pale, unmarked like marble aside from his Nicky Clarke scar. Howard feels big and thick and freckly and old. 

 

Vince’s giggle doesn’t help matters. 

 

“What are you laughing at, sir?” Howard blusters. 

 

“You’ve got bloody sock garters on!” Vince cackles. 

 

“They are a timeless staple of the male wardrobe, I’ll have you know. Perfect for keeping one’s hosiery in place throughout the day.” 

 

“‘Hosiery?’” Vince snickers. “Say whatever you want, I don’t know if I’m freaked out or turned on.”

 

Howard only then realizes that Vince is also stripped down to his pants. 

 

Skull printed bikini briefs. 

 

Howard processes this information, which his brain then sends directly to his cock. His balls already feel heavy fit to burst, constrained as they are. He feels The Monster twitch, and notices Vince noticing. 

 

“Come here, you beautiful jazzy freak,” Vince says softly, all teasing gone from his voice. The kiss he gives Howard is one of pure affection, soft, and loving, and caressing. Howard tries to give as good as he receives, though he imagines he still needs practice. He hopes Vince will accommodate him. 

 

“Leave the garters, I’ve decided they’re dead sexy,” says Vince in his low come-hither voice. “Sexy Howard, hiding garters under his stodgy clothes,” Vince mutters as he kisses down Howard’s throat to his collarbone, sucking there for a while. Howard nearly sobs at the sensation. 

 

“Vince, please, I won’t last long.”

 

“S’okay, neither will I.” At that he rubs Howard’s cock through the familiar fabric of his own pants.

 

“Oh, Christy!” pants Howard. Vince pushes him back on the bed. 

 

“Off,” commands Vince. Howard raises his hips and slides Vince’s blue pants down his long legs to his knees. Vince takes them off the rest of the way and watches hungrily as Howard’s cock, red and swollen, bobs up against his stomach. 

 

He grins and crawls his way up Howard, stopping to lick at his gartered calves. Howard nearly spends himself, something in the subservience of it all arousing him to breaking point.

 

Luckily, Vince doesn’t linger. He kisses his way up Howard’s thighs, and then in one motion, takes Howard’s aching length into his mouth. 

 

The image of Vince’s darkened eyes looking up at him through long lashes with The Monster in his mouth is not one he’ll soon forget. Vince breathes around him, his mouth wet and hot, and ruts his own still covered erection against Howard’s thigh. He moans and sighs as he sucks Howard off, the soft noises doing things to Howard he didn’t even know were possible. 

 

Vince is getting off on this, too, on Howard’s hot, stiff cock heavy on his tongue, on the sounds Howard’s making, on the way Howard throws his head back, eyes shut, thrashing his head about while saying, “Oh God, yes, oh fuck, oh God, Vince, fuck, yes.” He grinds himself on Howard’s strong leg, nearly there himself. 

 

All at once he feels Howard’s balls tighten and with a cry he’s coming, spilling down Vince’s throat. Vince moans in abject pleasure as he swallows every drop. 

 

He sits up and focuses his full attention on riding Howard’s thigh for all he’s worth. “Yes, Howard, fuck, so good, m’so close,” he keens. Howard looks up at him, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed, and reaches a hand out to tweak Vince’s nipple.

“Come,” he commands smokily.  And Vince does, shooting his load inside his own black underwear, gasping and biting his lip so hard it draws blood. 

 

When he’s come down a bit, he goes to the bathroom to clean up and brings back a wet flannel for Howard to do the same. Howard lay in bed with a glazed expression on his face, and Vince doubts he’d even know what year it was if asked. 

 

“All right, Howard?”

 

“All right, Vince.” 

 

“Good.” He curls into Howard’s side, nearly purring with delight when Howard reaches an arm around him and tucks Vince into his chest. 

 

“Vince?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“What are they made of? Your pants.” 

 

“Micro modal.”

 

“Ahh.”

 

He places a kiss on Vince’s head, and together they fall asleep, all thoughts of the shop and magical undergarment mishaps forgotten. 

 

Three hours later in the Dalston Starbucks, Naboo checks his watch (he was a Shaman, but even they appreciated good timepieces), consults his tea leaves (which read “they did it”), and stands.

 

“Let’s go, they’ve done it,” he lisps to Bollo. 

 

“Bollo got lots of bad feelings about this.”

 

“Maybe, but now we can go home and reverse the spell and those two idiots will have finally gotten all of  _ that  _ out of their system. Maybe now they’ll stop stinking up the place with their filthy sexual tension.” 

 

“Now place gonna stink of sexual--”

 

“Enough. That’s what the weed and other smokeables are for. Cover up the smell.” He smiles fondly remembering his friend, The Stoned Enigma, who'd sold him a bunch of new things to try. “Let’s get back and return Howard’s pants to him.”

 

Together they amble back to the shop which was, predictably, closed, and their flat where within minutes, Howard had all his pants back. 

 

What Naboo didn’t know was that at this moment, Howard couldn’t care less about the state of his pants. He was in bed, content for the first time in years, with Vince, and he had every intention of switching entirely to micro modal. The Monster deserved a new wardrobe (and probably a new name), and Howard deserved nice things. 

 

The sock garters stayed, of course. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The concept of "pants" meaning "underwear" is a struggle for this garbage American. I hope I did okay. 
> 
> Also, just in case anyone needs this information: Tigi makes a shampoo for color-treated hair that smells like toffee. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
